


The Line Begins to Blur

by Gunshy Fiction (Defiler_Wyrm)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Identity Issues, Lucid Dreaming, Lucifer as Sam | Sam as Lucifer, M/M, Made For Each Other, POV Second Person, Seduction, Vessel Fic, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Gunshy%20Fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam consented to let Lucifer use his body, but not his heart: that much the Devil has to earn. As the boundaries of their identities fade into each other it becomes less clear who's seducing whom.</p><p><a href="http://luciferious.tumblr.com/post/47061826810/30-day-otp-challenge">A story in thirty parts, one hundred words at a time.</a> Updates every five days in June 2013.</p><p>Excerpt:<br/><i>You have such beautiful hands.</i></p><p>
  <i>They’re long and elegant and strong, recalling the spread of primaries against the wind. When he slips back to let you see through your own(his) eyes again he still keeps control of them: you wake to find him(you) flowing through your(his) veins like fire but the fingertips stroking up and down your throat are bracing cold, a sheet of ice keeping him trapped within. He traces(you trace) the divot of your clavicle, the crest of the jaw he’s kept shaven, the swell of his(your) lower lip. Your breath frosts the air when you sigh. <b>Beautiful.</b></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Canto I-V: Overtures

**01\. Hands**

You have such beautiful hands.

They’re long and elegant and strong, recalling the spread of primaries against the wind. When he slips back to let you see through your own(his) eyes again he still keeps control of them: you wake to find him(you) flowing through your(his) veins like fire but the fingertips stroking up and down your throat are bracing cold, a sheet of ice keeping him trapped within. He traces(you trace) the divot of your clavicle, the crest of the jaw he’s kept shaven, the swell of his(your) lower lip. Your breath frosts the air when you sigh.  _Beautiful_.

 

.oOo.

 

**02\. Elements**

At first he’s too careless for your comfort. He(you) walks the desert barefoot on his way to rouse an ancient beast, and you thrash and rail until your(his) body twitches; it gave him pause.  _It burns_ , you scream, and he frowns – untouched, unsweating in the endless sun. He pulls you back from your own nerves without a word, instead letting his childlike glee for running across the sand wash over you both. 

“If I were here without you, this would be a sea of glass,” he tells you with your own voice. It sounds like both wonder and gratitude.

 

.oOo.

 

**03\. Books and Artifacts**

He has this thing for compromise. He knows your thirst for knowledge, your curiosity; he prods at it to try to rouse you when you’ve withdrawn ( _Don’t sulk_ , he chides). Despite best efforts to stay down he pulls you up to See.

He’s brought you to a crypt. It’s your turn to chide, which only confuses him; archangels don’t understand clichés. But there’s book under your fingers so old the pages (papyrus!) are brittle as autumn leaves and the words die in your(his) throat. 

“I can’t read this,” you admit. 

_I can_ , he whispers, and guides you word by word.

 

.oOo.

 

**04\. Dreams**

When he’s full of righteous rage he holds you under til you drown in the the shadow he casts inside you, assuring you it’s mercy; but he can be so gentle, drawing you away from consciousness and the searing pain of Grace vibrating between your atoms into something like sleep. Tucked away, he speaks to you in dreams like he did before that fateful Yes: soft words and softer touches even when you pull away. You bask in light and feathered bowers while he walks the earth in your skin, shielding you from knowing what he does with your(his) hands.

 

.oOo.

 

**05\. A Kiss**

In dreams his whispers use your voice. Some memories are yours(his), some his(yours), til you're not sure which is which: childhood fears and galaxies' births alike. 

But when you dream of Jessica again sour jealousy slithers through him(you) for your fingers sinking into thick blonde hair, your smile pressed against her lips. The skies crack open above him(you); for just a moment he forgets the End.

_You should love me as much._  He invades your consciousness like a conqueror but his(your) mouth against yours(his) is like a dying man's prayer. He is so vast and so desperate and so alone.

 


	2. Canto VI-X: Discovery

**06\. Costume/Character Swap  
**

He doesn’t understand clothes but you’ll both go in circles over plaid. Taking your body is one thing; taking your wardrobe is another.

He’s fire thrumming with excitement between your cells as he nudges you from slumber:  _Look, look!_  He lets you See again: you’re(he’s) grinning into a five-part mirror in sleek, gleaming white from head to toe. His(your) grin falls. “We look like a televangelist from Hell.”

“Lightbringer,” he grouses back, and insists on wearing it anyway; but he can’t hide his(your) disappointment – or the pleased warmth in his(your) chest when you realise moments later,  _you’d said “we.”_

 _  
_.oOo.

 

**07\. Weapons and Armour  
**

Long before Detroit you’d seen him fight and kill: always with gestures or his bare hands. The day an ill-advised squadron of angels comes for him(you) their swords gleam bright but he is empty-handed. They ignore his warnings; they die on their own blades. His(your) heart breaks for every last one.

 _You never use a sword_ , you prompt much later. He hums; his Grace twists; warm metal drops into his(your) hand, limned in guttering holy flame. “A last resort. The only things that’re a threat to me are ones I don’t want staining my blade.”

He means family. You understand.

 

.oOo.

 

**08\. Virtues**

You shouldn’t admit this but he’s really not  _all bad._

That is to say, there is a part of him(you) that recalls what he was before the Fall, before Hell. He’s patient in ways you can’t comprehend no matter how many glimpses you catch of the aeons he languished alone ( _waiting for you_ ). He clings to the notion of loyalty like a lifeline — like your brother does — so hard it cuts him(you) to ribbons to know his family wants him(you) dead. He is merciful and just, even in his nightmarish spite; not quite the Devil you expected him to be.

 

.oOo.

 

**09\. Sins**

The brooding is unsurprising. It’s neurotic habit: the only thing he’s really been able to do for ages besides claw at himself and scream. (You know that feeling now, though it’s harder every day to keep your experiences and his memories separate.)

What  _is_  surprising is the guilt threatening to crush him(you) from the inside, and the uncertainty it’s wrought, the questions he tries to hide even from you. He’s too proud to repent, yes, but while an archangel  _should_  be too absolute to second-guess anything — even himself — you’re coming to suspect his original sin was not rebellion, but doubt.

 

.oOo.

 

**10\. Monsters**

The two of you have a terrible lot in common. Your tempers, family history, pride — and, unexpectedly, a hatred for monsters. Now that you’re privy to his thoughts on demons frankly you admire his restraint. The first time your conjoined wandering flushes out a rawhead, though, there is no holding him back. His Grace is a solar flare spilling from between your cells, annihilating the abomination from the atoms up. His wings twitch angrily for days afterward.

You mustn’t grow complacent. No matter what he(you) may think of(feel for) you(him), he is an  _archangel_  — an ancient, alien, sentient nuclear bomb.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (06) It turns out I apparently misunderstood the prompt for #6 but ah well. This entire series is sort of a halfway character swap to begin with, what with Sam's and Lucifer's identities getting all mixed up. 'Skinda the point.
> 
> (07) Hopefully it's clear here that Lucifer is antsy about not wanting his family's blood on his sword. Whatever else he may be guilty of he's not a kinslayer by nature.


	3. Canto XI-XV: Speculation

**11\. Post-Apocalypse**

So here you are at the end of all things. The last human lays dead, the last demon snuffed out. Hell is empty. Heaven is closed. It’s just him — no, just you — just (the two of) you now. It’s been years since you’ve been able to tell where your soul ends and his Grace begins, let alone your minds. Now that your(his) work is done he’s promised to bathe you in perfect ecstasy and unity forever, but first:

You watch(he’s watching) the sunrise with his(your) wings filling the sky. He has(you’ve) brought a new dawn.

_“All of this for you.”_

 

.oOo.

 

**12\. A Spell**

In another lifetime maybe things play out differently.

He’s(you’re) burning sigils into midair.  _Come_ , he reads off mentally.  _Darkness. Maw. Mine. Corrode. Obey._

For a race that can shape reality like putty with a gesture and a thought, angels have an abundance of rituals. More than just summoning and banishment: there are ceremonies for transfers of power and fealty, Words to avoid detection, to bookmark a point in time and space…to open doorways to incomprehensible places and command what comes through.

And now that you and he are one, you know all that he knows. This will be useful.

 

.oOo.

 

**13\. Costumes**

 

If there’s one thing you’d been wrong about before it was thinking he was wholly at ease in human skin. The feedback loop between you makes it clear it’s almost as bad for him at times as it is for you. If it weren’t for muscle memory you’re sure he’d have trouble standing. No wonder his siblings move so stiffly.

You are a sentient mask for him, a tailored suit with a soul. In your more delirious moments you halfway compare yourself now to the personas and outfits of your hunting days: something tight-fitted but flimsy at the seams.

 

.oOo.

 

**14\. Genderswap**

 

The hardest thing to forgive her for is Jesse: both Azazel’s involvement in his death and that she used his likeness to stalk your dreams.

“I had to make sure you’d listen to me, Sam,” she sighs, tucking (your) hair behind an ear, placating with words and touches alike— but you’re having none of it.

_You were trying to break me,_  you snap back. _Is that how you broke that girl you were wearing before me? Nicky? Who did you pretend to be for her?_

She’s silent for a long time. “I don’t want to have to pretend with you.”

 

.oOo.

 

**15\. Canon-Based Wildcard (Randomised: Seeing Strange Lights)**

The lights in the sky grow brighter as if new stars were igniting before your(his) very eyes. They're planning something big, he thinks. Maybe they've found a way to take him(you) down from behind the Gates. Maybe Michael and Raphael will descend together in a column of holy wrath extending from the empty Throne to where you stand on this tiny infant planet. Maybe he'll welcome oblivion after being ruined by the Cage.

_You're not ruined,_ you insist. You don't want to die either.

Six Hellfire-scorched wings rustle at your back. "Oh, you know that's not true, Sam," he sighs.

 


	4. Canto XVI-XX: Disquiet

**16\. Rituals**

He greets the sun like an old friend every day. No matter where he’s brought you, no matter the weather; he’ll tear open the clouds if he must.

He touches before he speaks but only with you. It’s always the cold crackle of his Grace that rouses you from the dark before you hear him calling your name.

He preens after meeting with demons — they leave both of you feeling dirty.

He tears at him(your)self in long, steady furrows after killing another angel until grief weakens his hold on you and you take control long enough to make him stop.

 

.oOo.

 

**17\. A Special Occasion**

As it turns out he likes to  _think_  he’s infinitely patient, and you’d thought so too at first, but the fact of the matter is he’s been alone for the equivalent of six million years so he’s really not used to being patient  _with someone else_.

He won’t break his promise not to hurt you (on purpose), so wearing him down is just a matter of time. You have all the time in the world now.

“This is unwise,” he says for the thousandth time; then: “but if it means you’ll _shut up about it,_ fine— we’ll go see Dean.”

 

.oOo.

 

**18\. Working Together**

_I **told**  you this was unwise. Repeatedly._ He’d started off smug but once that wore off he’s just morose.

Dean’s cycled through every emotion he has and maybe a few new ones, most of them expressed via yelling himself hoarse, finally settling on stricken.

“It’d be worse if it weren’t for me,” you try to tell him(them). The words strike true  _inside_  even if Dean is unconvinced.

“If you’ve got some sway, man, make him  _end it_ ,” he begs.

The archangel’s words froth up from your(his) throat, irresistible: “Why would I want it to end? We’re in this together now.”

 

.oOo.

 

**19\. Mythological Figures**

“I don’t know whether to be amused or affronted.” His(your) fingers trace a gilt, ancient page where carmine inks soaked into sheepskin form a misshapen Devil, as your kind expected the Devil to be: horns and hooves and tail, red skin and beard-rimmed fangy grin. You’ve Seen him in his purest state. They couldn’t be more wrong.

_You’ve been a scapegoat for a long time,_  you tell him. It’s been quiet — he’s been quieted — so you press your luck, sidling close inside your shared self. _You could still prove them wrong, you know._

Your(his) fingertips swipe over your(his) mouth. “Perhaps.”

 

.oOo.

 

**20\. Horror**

Sometimes, though, it’s just like you imagined.

His Grace drags you along in ways the human body was never meant to move. It boils in your blood and erupts from your back like gouts of lava: his wings are as terrible as they are divine. His thought process is alien and fast and too swift. He never sleeps, never eats, so neither do you. The true form of the thing inside you —  _wearing you_  — is too immense even folded up perfectly to fit your skin. You burn inside, and you  _scream_  and  _scream_ , but only the Devil hears you now.

 


End file.
